


Rapping at the Windows, Crying at the Locks

by hauntedlittledoll



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, F/M, Gen, Random Musical References for the Win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim and Steph sneakily care for Damian while he is small.</p><p>Companion to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2094624">You Belong in a Zoo</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rapping at the Windows, Crying at the Locks

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the classic ”Wee Willie Winkie” lullaby (modern lyrics).

“Is that … ?”

“Yep,” Steph serenely turned the page of her magazine, eying a blatantly awkward display of Photoshop with distaste.

Tim cautiously worked his way around the outer edge of the room, careful to leave a good six feet between him and the small figure face-down on the floor.  When he was standing next to the loveseat and that delicate operation had not set off the imminent apocalypse, Tim frowned.  “What happened?”

“Dick’s going with magic, but Bruce refuses to rule out questionable science.”

So they didn’t know anything yet.  It happened sometimes—even to the Batmen.

Tim craned his neck for a better view: “What is he doing?”

“Sulking.”

Damian Wayne, currently rendered approximately two years of age by unknown means, was sprawled amid an explosion of crayons and paper.  He hadn’t even raised his head to investigate Tim’s presence, but left his eyes screwed shut and nose mashed uncomfortably into the floor.

“Can he suffocate like that?” Tim asked in reluctant concern.

“Nope,” Steph assured him sweetly.  “The floor’s hard-wood, and he’ll turn his head when he thinks we’re not looking.”

A low growl emanated from the toddler.

Tim held his breath, but Damian didn’t move and Steph seemed utterly unconcerned.  She liked baby-sitting, if Tim remembered correctly.  For some reason, she even liked Damian.

“I’m surprised Dick isn’t up here playing Batman or acrobat or something else gravity-defying,” Tim admitted after a minute, sinking into the mostly vacant cushion beside the blonde.

Steph promptly transferred her feet to his lap.  “He was,” she reported cheerfully, “but Alfred wanted to disinfect the bite marks.  Turns out that little D does not in fact like _being_ the Bat-Plane.”

“Thilence, Fatgiwl.”  Damian finally lifted his head to fix Steph with a look that promised painful death.

Tim blinked.  “He still has all of his memories?”  That was a point in favor of Dick’s magic theory.

“He’s a hundred percent the homicidal ninja-baby we know and love,” Steph confirmed, blowing Damian a kiss that only frustrated the toddler further.  “He’s just two and all that it entails—adorable speech impediment, developing motor skills, poor impulse control, and in _dire_ need of a nap.”

“Am not.”

“Are too,” Steph shot back, because they’re all overgrown toddlers under the masks.

Damian subsided crankily, turning his back on them by rolling over.  “Thith thucks,” he muttered, curling up miserably.  He’s wearing age-appropriate clothing in his size which must have been Alfred’s doing—the teeny-tiny Bat logo of Bruce’s influence notwithstanding.  Damian’s feet are bare though; the socks discarded halfway across the room and his toes tightly-curled.

If it hadn’t been _Damian_ , Tim would have been tempted to pick up the baby and restore the socks.  The Manor could be drafty—despite Alfred’s best efforts—due to the Caves beneath.

Tim bit his lip, and slid his laptop from its case.  “Come here and look at this, Damian,” he invited cautiously.  “I can’t make heads or tails out of the Riddler’s latest work.”

Damian twisted to eye him suspiciously as he judged the sincerity of the offer.  Once the boy decided that he wasn’t being completely patronized, he pushed himself to his feet and toddled over to the couch.  “Move over, Dwake,” he commanded imperiously, shoving at Tim’s leg impatiently.

Tim rolled his eyes and scooted over the entire spare inch that he had been granted, as Stephanie swung her feet to the floor and sat up.  With some determined wiggling, Damian got himself onto the furniture without any assistance.  The teenagers politely bit their tongues and waited for him to situate himself comfortably between them.  Then Steph shook out her afghan over their laps, and Tim settled the computer in Damian’s so they could all see.

It may have been a thinly-veiled excuse to keep Damian warm in his altered state, but Tim’s choice of distraction was a good one.  Damian had an excellent memory for the puns of classic literature, and Steph grew up in the house of a Riddler-groupie.  She knew all of the old favorites.  Tim soon had a solid lead and a tentative plan of action.

He didn’t notice that Damian was slowly leaning over more and more or that the toddler’s weight grew heavier and heavier.  Tim continued to work obliviously until Damian tipped over completely, already fast asleep.

Tim instinctively opened his mouth to protest, but Steph clapped a hand over it as she fumbled for her phone.  Tim scowled as she proceeded to snap a few pictures “for Cass and oh, Kara would love this,” but knew better than to argue.  “Do you have Ravager’s number?”

“I hate you,” he huffed, trying not to squirm and wake up the little demon.  Damian was sprawled across his lap now; head pillowed on Tim’s thigh, tiny fists tucked close to his face and lower lip drooping as he slumbered on in a state of misleading innocence.  Tim gave up, accepting that the loss of his dignity was unavoidable.  “Can you get him off now?” he whined, carefully moving the computer out of danger by holding it over his head.

“Hang on a second,” she snickered.  “This one’s for Dick.”

Tim swore.

Finally through with embarrassing him, Steph cast aside the phone and carefully scooped Damian up.  “I’ve been waiting for the chance to do this all night,” she admitted in a confidential whisper, cuddling him close.  “It’s the baby toes.”

“If he kills you, I’m not getting involved.”  Tim slid off the couch and started picking up the mess on the floor to save Alfred the trouble.  There were crayons spread from one end of the library to the other; some had clearly been used as improvised projectiles when Damian’s artistic skills failed him.  He glanced up at the pretty picture Steph made with the little figure in her arms and looked away, clearing his throat.  “Did you learn nothing from Dick?”

“Sure, I did,” Steph murmured, stroking Damian’s hair and dropping a feather-light kiss on his bare forehead.  Damian didn’t stir.  “Sleeping babies don’t bite.”


End file.
